


Breadwinner

by Janekfan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Exhaustion, Fever, Gen, Geralt doesn't listen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is capable, Jealousy, M/M, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:20:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24504550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Jaskier is talented. Geralt is jealous.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 146
Kudos: 865





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier could hear Geralt’s stomach growling from here. A harsh season meant few game and while the bard was plagued with hunger pains as well, there was no accounting for a witcher’s metabolism. How long could he go before collapse? How long before some beast struck him down in his weakness? Jaskier shuddered, shaking his head to dispel the horrible visions dancing in front of his eyes. 

“I take it there were no contracts in town?”

“Hm.” Geralt stirred the pot sitting amidst the coals, ladling the contents into their bowls. Water, a bit of burdock and thistle, some rampion leaves they’d picked along the way. Not much more than a bitter tea but still something warm to fill their bellies. Jaskier downed it quickly to avoid the taste and poked at what bits remained in his teeth. Geralt couldn’t fight on this. _Jaskier_ couldn’t walk much farther on this. 

“There’s an inn.” 

“You know we have no coin for that.” The tone disclosed his disappointment and Jaskier fought against his rising temper. It wouldn’t do any good to argue over the witcher’s poor opinion of him, not right now. No matter how much he wished Geralt could actually see him for who he was, he’d only ever be an incapable nuisance.

“That is precisely why I suggest we venture there, dear witcher.” He leaned forward, theatrically illuminating his face with the dying flames of their small fire. “You may not enjoy my fillingless pie, but I know for certain that others often fancy a taste.” Geralt snorted, disdainful, before turning into his bedroll. And still Jaskier could hear his near empty stomach. It kept him up until the first streaks of watery sunlight filtered through the trees as he thought of his most popular songs. He wanted to prove to Geralt he could take care of them.

There was an itch deep behind his heart where no amount of ale and decent food could reach. Something foreign growing there while he watched the bard cavort about the room, enchanting men and women alike. Currently, he was playing a boisterous round, raising spirits at the point of the evening when coin more than likely would flow like wine. He’d end with a ballad. Nice and slow to ease the way home to their beds. In the morning, Jaskier would have the first baked roll out of the oven on his way to teach lessons to the local children. It didn’t bring much money, but he said it filled him in ways more important than food. Geralt would busy himself with odd jobs, plenty around a town like this for a strong man to do. But he couldn’t help compare the amount they each tipped into their purse at the end of the day. 

It was foolish. He knew that. Competitions like these had no place on the road. Especially when the other party didn’t even know they were in the match. And yet it irritated him, the clink of each coin grating along every nerve. 

“I never thought I’d see the day.” Jaskier laid back on the bed, flushed from yet another exciting production, and yawned hugely, finishing with a wry grin. “I’ve gone from storing bread in my breeches to bringing home more than the White Wolf himself.” 

“Jaskier.” Warning clear, that _itch_ becoming worse. 

“I know, I know, I shan’t tease you any longer.” Indeed he could not, for he was asleep once the words passed his lips. 

“Goddess, I am absolutely _knackered_.” Fumbling fingers struggled with the buttons on his doublet and he shook them out, hissing between his teeth at the sting and sucking on one sore digit for a second before trying again. 

“I think this is the most I’ve seen you work since we met.” Just this side of bitter and Geralt caught the flash of hurt flicker over the bard’s face before it was replaced with familiar righteous indignation. 

“That’s not fair.” He sighed with the relief of stripping out of the stiffer material and falling into bed. “We often don’t see each other for months at a time and I’ll have you know, I work quite hard teaching the continent’s next star, whosoever it may be.” He relaxed into the mattress, groaning obscenely, and Geralt rolled his eyes and went back to sharpening his blades. 

“Hm.” 

“Geralt?” His tone was wheedling, the tone he used when he wanted something. He ignored him. “Geralt.” Stretching out the last syllable of his name in a whine and he sighed. 

“What is it, Jaskier?” 

“Would it trouble you to retrieve my comfrey salve for me?” It stank at the best of times. With his enhanced sense of smell, it was probably the one thing Jaskier carried that made him need to vacate the immediate area. Otherwise, the musician was careful with his nose, a kindness Geralt had yet to know from anyone else. But this? He’d be in the stable with Roach. 

“No.” 

“Geralt!” 

“It stinks. And you reek of it for days. No.” 

“Fine.” Punctuated with a dramatic huff. “I will spare you this once.” Jaskier settled his hands above his head on the lumpy pillow, eyes already slipping shut. “Know my benevolence, dear witcher.”

Later, when Geralt shoved him out of his ridiculous sprawl, he caught a glimpse of Jaskier’s fingers before he tucked them under his chin, brows drawing together and mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like a painful complaint. Even in the low light he could tell the tips of them, that he knew from experience had callouses similar to the ones he acquired using his swords, were swollen and bruised.

They moved on to another town through weather wet and windy only to find empty notice boards there as well. Jaskier shivered when he shucked off his soaked clothes, changing into another doublet and preparing to perform for their bed tonight. 

“Don’t pout, love.” Jaskier tuned his lute almost mindlessly. “You’ll be out there covered in blood and bits of monster soon enough, I just know it.” He patted Geralt once on the cheek when he passed and he could feel the chill on his skin from frozen fingers while he hung up the bard’s clothes to dry.

Another day later, just before another performance earning them room, board, and tips for supplies, a well dressed patron approached the table despite Geralt’s warning growling and narrowed eyes. 

“Peace, witcher.” Empty hands rose in front of him. “I’d like a word with your barker, here.” Geralt folded his arms and leaned back. It was as much of an invitation the man was going to get and Jaskier gestured for him to continue, drinking down sweet honey tea for a sore throat he’d mentioned earlier. “My daughter is to be wed in two days time and our musical entertainment has been waylaid. When I heard _you_ were here, in our very town, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to ask.”

“We need to move on.” Low and gruff. Geralt more than done with playing second fiddle to Jaskier’s dramatics.

“I promise, the wage would be well worth your time to make up for the delay.” Jaskier gripped the man’s hand and Geralt’s eyes rolled at the histrionics of it all. 

“What manner of minstrel would I be to deny a young lady music on such a special day?” Earnestly. “Of course we shall attend.” And he elbowed Geralt in the side when he made to protest again. “None of that now, darling witcher. Just think of the tales those guests will tell!”

“I’ll be in the room.” He left the pair to hash out details, tamping down on his ire even as he felt it rise. While he couldn’t deny that Jaskier was proving extremely lucrative, he also couldn’t ignore how it made his blood boil. But neither could he deny the comfort of a full stomach.

He shouldn’t need anyone. 

Least of all a human to provide. 

And yet. 

“Apologies, friends!” Jaskier held out placating hands at the uproarious and drunken cries. “But I’m afraid I must retire for the evening or I shan’t wake for tomorrow’s performance!” He moved through the crowd, accepting the last few coins and bracing himself against the meaty paws beating gregariously against his back and shoulders before taking to the stairs.

“I think I must pass on that invitation.” Jaskier sighed, dropping to the bed and holding his head in his hands. He was trembling with fatigue despite sleeping so deeply the night prior and everything ached. Massaging the bridge of his nose, the bard laid back, throwing his arm over his eyes to block the candlelight and releasing a measured breath in a vain attempt to stop himself from losing what little he’d eaten for dinner. At least Geralt was able to finish it for him. “No matter how profitable it promised to be.” 

“Maybe if you didn’t drown yourself in ale every evening, pandering to your audience’s love of _monsters_.” The poorly disguised vitriol had Jaskier peeking from under the sleeve of his doublet. There was no missing his double meaning.

“Beg pardon?” He was confused. Geralt’s irritation seemed to have reached its peak. The more he played the more upset the witcher became. But they’d had steady food and income for almost a fortnight now. Surely that was enough to satisfy him, to prove that Jaskier could pull his weight when he needed to. He wasn’t a fool, he knew how to earn something of a living after all these years. Though it was off the witcher’s name. 

“Hm.” The tension bled from him like smoke from green wood. 

“What’s got into you?” Jaskier forced himself upright, ignoring all the complaints his body threw at him, vision swimming, stomach uneasy and threatening. “You’ve been contentious for days.” Longer than that, and Jaskier could give him some leeway considering he was his source material, but he was _tired_. Jaskier played every evening, longer sets, later nights, traveling in between villages, sleeping rough, and it was taking something of a toll--coin didn’t just fall from the sky. “Well?”

“You haven’t yet had enough attention?”

“Atten--! Attention??” He felt as though he’d been slapped. “Is that what you think this is?” Unbelievably hurt, Jaskier felt it in his stomach like a physical ache, as thought he’d been gutted. Even with the regret flashing immediately through the witcher’s strange eyes, the bard’s throat worked, lips pressed tight together and far too exhausted to maintain his composure for long. “I, hm. I will see you tomorrow.” Heaving himself up on jelly legs, having not even had the time to change for sleep, Jaskier left, pausing at the door without looking back. “Get some rest. You’re insufferable when you’re tired.” 

Though small, the room was somehow emptier without Jaskier’s personality to fill it up corner to corner, and the raw, battered expression he’d put on his face just moments ago could not be dispelled. What possessed him to say such things? Knowing that he was working night and day to make sure they didn’t go without food. To make sure that Roach had somewhere safe to stable, oats to eat. The rough sheets were still warm when he touched them and part of him wanted nothing more than to go look for him, the other parts too proud to concede. To admit he was wrong. Jealous. 

Jaskier wasn’t there to see him take his advice. 

Geralt was awake and dressed for the day when Jaskier reappeared, fine doublet rumpled, bits of straw in his mussed up hair. He smelled like Roach. He looked unwell. 

“Going out?” Geralt nodded, unaccustomed to this situation he’d put himself in, and Jaskier all but collapsed on the mattress, curling onto his side, facing away from the door. He was about to suggest he act on his decision the night before, to decline the performance tomorrow, when Jaskier spoke, drowsy. “Early wedding day. Took the night off to save my voice.” Judging by the slowing of his heart beat, the bard had dropped off to sleep and Geralt found himself unbuckling his boots and slipping them off in an attempt to make him more comfortable. Well within reach, he placed the pitcher of water and wooden cup, and left. 

Still no contracts posted, a funny thing to be angry at. No contracts meant no monsters. No monsters meant fewer deaths. It should be a good thing. And he couldn’t convince himself otherwise. Able to find a few odd jobs around the village kept his hands and mind busy and he was able to head back to the pub and purchase a thirst quenching ale with coin he’d earned with his own hard work. It helped alleviate the nagging, useless feeling that plagued him. He asked the innkeep if they’d seen his companion, if he’d ordered any food, but the answer was no, and he let that sit heavy in his gut before requesting a plate to take up to the room. 

It was dark and quiet, only the sound of Jaskier’s slow breath filling up the space, and Geralt put the plate aside to check on him. The pitcher was empty, a good sign, but at some point the cup had been knocked over, water pooled on the floor, and Geralt was irritated at him for leaving a mess. He shook one shoulder, surprised when he met the stiff brocade of his doublet. 

“Jaskier. Wake up.” When he didn’t respond, he spoke louder, shook harder, exasperated at the pace with which the bard woke, dazed and hazy, wincing when he craned his neck to look up into the witcher’s face. 

“Geralt?” 

“You need to eat something.” The man paled, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. 

“No, thank you.” And Geralt frowned, stopped him when he tried to collapse back again. 

“Hold on.” Jaskier whined, petulant and pained. “Gonna help you change, be more comfortable, fool bard.” With that, Geralt helped wrestle him into sleep clothes, and he was limp and quite unhelpful, overwarm where his forehead came to rest against his throat.

“My darling hero.” Exhaled on a long sigh, loose-limbed and giddy when Gerealt shoved him to the other side of the bed to crawl in after. Not quite sure how Jaskier would perform for an entire ceremony feeling this poorly, Geralt allowed him to curl up against his chest as a small comfort. 

Somehow, Jaskier was already awake, dressed in finery reserved only for things like this and tossing a familiar set his way when Geralt rolled out of the blankets. 

“Won’t do to be late!” How he was so cheerful after the previous day, Geralt would chalk up to this bard’s peculiar nature. 

Jaskier was charming as ever, entertaining guests and flirting gently with the bride to be, eliciting tittering in the crowd and flushing his face with bemusement. Geralt himself was surrounded by his own flock, and he caught the bard’s eyes glittering in delight over their heads. 

The music was as beautiful as Geralt knew it would be but while all eyes were on the festivities his were fixed on his companion. The brightness he’d interpreted as humor at his expense made his eyes distant, the blush he’d assumed was affection spread down his neck and tipped his ears, painted upon a canvas of pallid, nigh translucent skin. Weddings were long and boring affairs as far as the witcher was concerned, but he couldn’t deny Jaskier’s hard work and commitment even though it was clear he felt terrible and later in the evening he relied on well known folk songs and rounds sung by the intoxicated guests. Finally, someone, the bride’s father, called for the end, and allowed the musician to set down his lute before drawing Jaskier into an embrace. He stumbled under the noble beating his back and beaming in thanks, turning it nimbly into a polite bow to slip from under his hand, stepping back to put space between them. It was strange. Seldom did Jaskier walk away from praise. Sensitive ears picked up his excuse. Too much drink, though he’d had nary a drop, but his stumbling feet lent truth to his words. Nimbly, Geralt sidestepped through the retreating crowd, gaze fixed to the back of the bright doublet. 

It became clear that Jaskier didn’t know where he was going, heading into the small copse of trees providing a springtime backdrop for the festivities, instead of the house they’d been invited to for the night. Safely hidden, disappearing behind the slender trunks, Geralt heard him cough, smelled the sour sick before he picked out the desperate, slurred words. 

“Geralt, Geralt.” Saw the fine embroidery adorning his collar before Jaskier turned, unsteady, and the witcher saw the pallor, the vacant pain in his eyes. The confusion and Geralt realized suddenly that he was looking for _him_ , as though they had camped here and he lost his way. The bard was bereft, upset and agitated, shaking fit to fly apart. “Geralt.” Whimpering, frightened, the fear scent was rolling off him in waves, tinged with salt and fever, and rather than the revulsion he expected to feel for the pitiful creature in front of him, he could only feel alarm, dread heavy in the pit of his stomach. 

“Jaskier?” The human jumped, sank to his knees when they buckled under him. Lifted dull and hazy blue in benediction the witcher certainly didn’t deserve. Not after his poor treatment.

“Geralt? I don’t.” He choked, blinked fast. Tears followed the paths already lining his cheeks. How did he manage to get through this day? Why had Geralt let this happen? He’d known something was wrong and let his jealousy get in the way. “Will you help me?” Gods. Jaskier should never sound so unsure, so afraid, and Geralt knelt to cup his jaw, thumbed away the moisture.

“I have you.” The relief was palpable. Naked and open in his face before he tipped into him. He shivered violently with chills, so much so it was apparent he wouldn’t be able to walk more than a few steps if at all. His heart fluttered, pulse so weak and rapid Geralt had to concentrate to make out any space between beats. “I have you, Jaskier.” Gingerly, he gathered the bard up, pressing him close and safe, long strides eating up the distance between house and trees. 

The next moments were a flurry of activity, the youngest of the family’s sons was sent for the town healer, a second horse’s reins in his hands to promise haste. They were whisked to a guest room, water drawn fresh from the well to cool him. Geralt let it happen around them, focus narrowed to trembling fingers laced between his own. 

Jaskier felt as though he were melting. Light, bright snow that dared fall too late in the season. He’d been stripped down to his smalls and was pouring sweat, wretchedly uncomfortable and so hot it was difficult to remember how chilled he was earlier. At the cold compress, wrung, applied, repeated, he cried from simple relief, tears cool against the heat of him. It was a balm, and surely the only thing stood between him and death. He writhed under a stranger’s fingers as they poked and prodded and palmed. 

“Geralt.” His tongue was twisted up too tight to truly speak. But he wanted it all to stop. Geralt could make it stop. “Please.”

“Hush, let her work. I’m here.” Geralt frowned at the boney jut of his ribs, skin stretched tight as a drum over rungs he could count. Looked to the older matron for answers when his words gentled the bard under his hands. Her face was full of sorrow but she didn’t balk at the intensity in his eyes. 

“It’s the sweating sickness. I’m sure of it.” She shook her head. “You’ve heard of this affliction?” 

“Aye, but I do not know the treatment.” Only knew how deadly it could be. They both know the truth of this. There was no need to say it aloud. “Witchers cannot catch it.”

“Then we do what we can.” 

Together, they poured medicines, teas, tinctures down his throat, plied him with the water he craved to encourage ease in taking them. Every passing moment became more difficult for him to stay awake and it was a torture.

“Please, Geralt. May I sleep?” Polite. Pleading. And infinitely small. He was exhausted, panting from exertion and pain, heart still stuttering in his chest.

“No!” Terse, sharp with his own fear and the delicate supplication went almost unheard over the rush of blood in his own ears. “Hush, no. I’m sorry, little lark.” He cast beseeching yellow eyes at the healer and she shook her head. “It’s dangerous yet. You must stay awake through the night, but I’ll stay with you.” 

The woman took her leave, generously paid for her services by the family, and Geralt was left alone. Jaskier would survive or he would succumb. 

In such a remarkably short time, the illness ravaged him, burned through him like wildfire and his thirst was impossible to slake. It made him ache to hear him beg for water, for sleep, for Geralt, by delirious turns, at times recognizing him and at others, fearful. The witcher’s whole world narrowed to that room, his failed attempts to soothe him, dripping water and medicines between chapped lips slowly so he wouldn’t choke. 

“Geralt, please. Feel, feel so ill.” He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, winded and restless without being able to understand why this was all happening.

“I know, songbird.” Jaskier leaned into the damp cloth, lashes fluttering, chest heaving unevenly. 

“Please.” Undone by his distraught pleading, at a loss and with no way to fight or fix, Geralt settled into bed beside him. “Oh, Geralt. Please, please may I sleep?” Gently, mindful of the ache set deep in the bard’s bones, Geralt tugged him into his lap, bending to drop a kiss to sweat soaked hair; anything to bring the bard a measure of comfort. He was through caring about appearances and there was no one around to see anyway. Besides, if he’d been able to leave his jealousy behind, would he have noticed the signs of his slow decline? Jaskier curled weak fingers into the coarse linen, crushing himself close as he could get, and tears slipped steadily down his cheeks to soak the dark shirt darker still. “‘M’sorry. M’sorry, I’ll do better. M’sorry.” Geralt hushed him, let his voice rumble in his chest where Jaskier could feel it beneath his ear. His bard was almost beyond words, beyond grasping the dire situation. But dawn was just beginning to break. Either it would be safe to sleep, or their efforts will have been futile. 

“Rest, Jaskier.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll do better, I’ll be better.” Limp with exhaustion, both weeping his pledge and tearing Geralt’s heart in two. None of this was his fault. None of it. Pressing his lips against his hot, dry forehead for a long moment, he lingered there. 

“Just rest. Everything will be alright in the morning. I promise you. I promise you.”


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t. 

There were periods of calm where Jaskier drifted somewhere between unconscious and asleep, and periods of unrest, begging, pleading with Geralt to help him, please help, I won’t do it again. He couldn’t know what he was saying, not truly. But without the strength to maintain his confident facade, he was left diminished, and Geralt was certain the bard wouldn’t wish for him as a witness. The fever burned everything out of him, melting resources away like the spring thaw, and kept on burning. 

“Are you leaving?” 

Me. 

It went unsaid and Geralt didn’t think the bard could bring himself to say it in case it was true. Voice reduced to nothing, Geralt would give anything to hear him singing in front of drunk customers, joyful, doing what he loved, safe and happy, irritating and obnoxious. The witcher brushed the back of his fingers down his stubbled cheek. His fever was up again, its wild fluctuations difficult to track. “You. You’ve been so angry with me.” It was the illness, lowering his defenses and simmering those insecurities just below his fractured awareness. “You. I don’t.” His breath hitched on a sob of defeat and confusion, head lolling on the pillow. “I tried so _h’hard_.” 

“I know.”

“Wanted to care for you.” Diluted blue peered up through fluttering lashes, exhaustion wrapped around the bard like a heavy shroud; it was crushing him beneath a weight Geralt was helpless to lift. 

It felt like an accusation and it was anything but. 

“I know.” Now. He knew that now. He lifted him a little higher, supporting his head in the crook of his elbow so he wouldn’t choke, tipped a warm bowl against chapped, dry lips. “Slow, hm?” The thin porridge was from the family’s personal kitchens and Geralt was so grateful for their help. It didn’t feel right, spending the coin Jaskier had earned at the expense of himself. For an ungrateful witcher with nothing but ridicule to add. 

“D’you eat?” For being just about unconscious, Jaskier knew how to drive a blade through his heart. The meals sent to him were noble and fine, sumptuous fare Geralt knew Jaskier would love after months of dried rations and boring meals from local inns. It was wasted on him. 

“Yes.” Settling him back, Geralt tested his fever, pulled back the quilt to his waist to cool him off, and caught Jaskier’s wrist when he reached for the hem, shivering. “Hush. Go to sleep.” 

“Good.” He let his head fall in the witcher’s direction, eyes closed, too worn out to force them open again. “Don’ like when you’re hungry.” A whisper of confession, the ghost of a smile. The very thing that put him in this bed to begin with. Geralt cupped his ear with a broad palm, ran his thumb so gently over hot, hot skin and whispered back his appeal. Throat clotted with feelings he wanted more than anything to avoid. 

“Stop worrying about me.” True to form, he was ignored as Jaskier’s wan face smoothed in sleep. It was only then that Geralt noticed he’d kept his grip over the delicate bones in the bard’s arm and, remembering something he’d said from the other day, slid towards his hand to spread elegant musician’s fingers for a look. “Damn.” The calloused pad of each fingertip was bruised, thin lines of red bisected some where the gut strings sliced into his skin. Geralt knew better than this. Even he wasn’t immune to overworking his sword arm and counting up every performance and the length of time he’d played at the wedding--

Geralt was nothing short of a git. 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Any amount of relief he could have found, the witcher denied him. The human followed him through thick and thin, half-starving himself when, clearly, he could have abandoned _him_ at any time to hole up safe and sound. Slept on frozen ground. Marched doggedly through rain. Kept hold of an incessantly sunny disposition not even for himself! But to give Geralt some small respite from the death and blood and hatred he’d lived with for the better part of a century. 

In Jaskier’s pack, in the place where he stored the most delicate items he carried; quill, ink, a flask of oil, the pouch of hide glue in grains for his lute, spare strings, Geralt found a small, tightly sealed wooden box, finely crafted, and wrapped in wax cloth to protect it from damp. He could already smell the comfrey and braced himself in opening it, swiping up a carefully measured amount because it was expensive but the bard swore by it and could only purchase it in Oxenfurt. Gently, with care reserved for these spare moments, he applied the salve evenly over abused skin before storing it away again as he’d found it. 

His face fell into his hands, and Geralt weathered the cloying, acrid scent as Jaskier often weathered him. 

Utterly still. Breath just barely lifting his chest. Burning brightly as the sun. 

Jaskier made no noise. Was silent in a way that stirred up the fear pooling in Geralt’s heart like mud. The family sent for the healer. 

She shook her head. Laid one gnarled hand on the witcher’s shoulder. 

And left. 

“You must be tired.” Geralt let the words drop from his mouth. Acknowledgment he’d never made before. “No shame in it. You’ve been. You’ve been strong.” Why now could he say these things? When it was too late. When he’d never hear that teasing lilt accuse him of going soft. 

Geralt crawled into bed beside him, close enough to hear the effort it was to continue living. 

Like this, Geralt could pretend it was any other night, that they’d stopped at an inn so he wouldn’t have to listen to Jaskier’s ceaseless complaining. Side by side. The witcher’s fingers wrapped around the bard’s slow pulsepoint, marking time for his own dirge like sand slipping through grasping fingers. 

Jaskier was frightened of abandonment. A fact Geralt took advantage of far too often. But he was here now.

“Just go to sleep.” As though the bard was chattering on endlessly as he was wont to do before bed, head full of lyrics, poems, adventure. Romance. 

“Just one more verse!” He’d cry, fumbling for his composition book. Beg for one more detail he knew Geralt would never give. 

“Long day, tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I rewrote this like 12 times. 
> 
> Words sometimes? Amiright?

Weak sunlight fell across Geralt’s face, warm apricot glow seeping through his eyelids and he woke with it slowly, blinking at the ceiling before bolting abruptly forward. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, to leave Jaskier alone while he--

The lack of scorching heat that met his frantic touch stole the breath from his lungs and left him drowning. The bard’s body was cool under his palms as he stroked back the dark fringe, clumsy and heartsick, over and over, golden eyes wide and stinging with something foreign. 

“Jask--” caught in his throat around hard sound and the desire to shake him awake and knowing, _knowing_. “Ja--” Geralt couldn’t tell you the last time he’d trembled from anything, even cold. “Oh.” 

And yet. 

As though Jaskier was spun from glass he gathered him in his arms, cradled the back of his head as he pressed him to his chest. The roar of the sea filled his ears, salt-scent overwhelmed his nose, shut out all else but for the consuming, physical ache behind his breastbone, growing, growing, growing, and with it he clutched Jaskier tighter, tighter, tighter, until--

“G’ral’?” The witcher froze, unbelieving. “Ow…” No more than a soft sigh against his skin, Geralt felt damp fluttering lashes brush his throat. Felt the dull thud of Jaskier’s heart held within the cage of his ribs. Slack in a way that established profound weariness, the bard was utterly limp, nearly tipping off the bed when Geralt pulled away in surprise. Cloudy, near crosseyed blue widened in surprise at the controlled descent back to the pillow, tongue darting out to wet dry, cracked lips. Geralt cupped his face with his hands and ran his thumbs over each cheek, almost frantically, over and over, while Jaskier tried in vain to meet his eyes, struggling to even keep them open. 

“You’re all right, go back to sleep, Jaskier.” Drinking in every pallid feature. This _gift_. Now that he could think clearly, Geralt recognized the signs of a broken fever; cool, clammy skin, both sets of their clothing soaked with sweat. He rang for a bath, joined the nobleman in briefly celebrating the bard’s waking and asked if the bedclothes could be changed. Despite their relatively equal height, Geralt held Jaskier close, swaddled in his lap while the large tub was filled, soft towels were laid out, and a selection of delicate soaps were offered up. 

Jaskier barely shifted when Geralt lowered them both into the blessedly warm water, rousing briefly with a melodic hum to lean his head on Geralt’s shoulder, resting there as the witcher cradled him until he slipped back under the tide of exhaustion. 

It was quiet, soft with steam and sunlight, the deep, even breaths from the man in his arms. Water dripped, a sound like rain, its slow and irregular pitter-patter contained within the high walls, cocooning them both, and Geralt didn’t know where it was coming from. Salt faintly tinged the humid air and when glancing at Jaskier’s face, a single bead of moisture kissed his cheek and slipped down the soft plane of it. Geralt blinked, immeasurably tired, trying to understand, and more joined in a steady parade. Burying his face in the ivory column of the bard’s throat, he cried. 

With both of them rinsed, dried, and dressed, Geralt tucked Jaskier in on the far side of the bed, taking his customary place on the outside, closest to the door. Closest to danger, feeling overprotective and wary with nerves. The bard smelled of clove and rosemary, skin cool to the touch and breathing steady and strong. The witcher tossed and turned, finally coming to rest on his side, facing Jaskier and reaching out before he thought about what he was doing, deciding on brushing aside the bangs falling over his face. He wanted him to wake. Tell him off for disrupting his beauty sleep.

“Not all of us have perpetual youth and beauty.” He would say, smirking. Laughing. How long had it been since he’d heard him laugh. Speak. Scold. 

Sing. 

“Jaskier.” Not loud. Not when he was sleeping off the battle he’d only just won. Instead he dropped his hand, wove their fingers together and focused on the rhythm of his heartbeat until the sun began to rise. 

“Feel like I’ve gone a few rounds with an entire unruly crowd of unsatisfied patrons.” Geralt put aside the book he’d been leafing through to watch Jaskier rub the sleep out of his eyes with a clumsy fist. He’d slept well into the next day before waking blearily, blinking hard and mumbling his guess, voice cracked and rough, raspy from not using it for so long and Geralt offered him a sip of water, steadying the cup when Jaskier’s hands shook.

“You’ve been very sick.” 

“I don’t remember.” His expression twisted up as he tried to reconcile with the time he was missing.

“I’m not surprised.” 

“These are lavish accommodations.” Jaskier plucked at the quilt and changed the subject. “Certainly, this isn’t some inn on the road.”

“The family. They insisted we stay until you were well again.” The sky in his eyes widened, still lined with dark shadow. 

“The wedding.” Horror flashed across his gaunt face as Jaskier shot upright only to collapse back with a groan when it sent the room spinning wildly around him. “Oh, goddess. I. I ruined it.” His voice was small. Trembling. For as lackadaisical as he pretended to be, the bard took his work seriously. “Didn’t I, Geralt?” 

“What do you remember?” Details were difficult, if not nigh nonexistent. For the life of him, Jaskier couldn’t recall the events of that day or any of the days following. It was a blur of cold and heat and weakness. He’d survived via muscle memory alone, no stranger to events of size and importance until he’d been allowed to stop. To find Geralt. 

“I have to, I.” Another moan, hiding behind his hands to gain some modicum of composure before pulling the threads that were left of him together enough to speak again. “Apologize. I have to see them straight away.”

“They’ve gone. To the groom’s home.” Geralt looked away, unable to face him. “It’s been some time since.” 

“No.” The man was distraught. “Geralt, I--”

“You finished the performance.”

“I did what?” Glistening, liquid strawflower blue poured into him as they locked eyes, as a tremor took root in his slender fingers. Jaskier needed to rest; this upset couldn’t be good for him. 

“I don’t think they really noticed anything was wrong. You. Hid it.” Quite well. Too well. And Geralt was too blinded by jealousy to notice until he’d stumbled off under the cover of applause and accolades for the happy couple and the excuse of too much wine though he’d hadn’t a sip all day. Found him retching. Delirious with fever and lack of water. With a barking cry of relief, Jaskier threw the back of his wrist over his nose. 

“I can thank university for that, I suppose.” Running the gamut of his considerable emotions had sapped him and Geralt saw it in his heaving chest, in the trembling line of his mouth. “The show must go on.” And the new knowledge gained, that he was used to performing ill, that he didn’t expect Geralt to help him at all because that’s just the way it was, cut him to the quick. But it was Jaskier’s turn it seemed, as a sob shook him hard enough to spill the tears welling in his eyes and he wrapped his arms around himself to keep the pieces in place. “I apologize, Geralt.” The laugh was wet, his shoulders hitching unevenly. “I'm sure I don’t know what’s come over me.” But he clung to the witcher when he settled beneath the blanket and offered up his arms. 

The moon was rising when Geralt felt Jaskier’s heart pick up, heard the wince more than felt it and the effort to keep still. 

“What’s wrong?” The bard was sprawled over his chest and the familiarity was comforting. His warm weight shifted as if to move but it seemed he decided against it.

“M’all right.” 

“You can tell me.” I promise. I will listen this time. I will listen every time from this moment forward. His hesitation felt like the twist of a knife in a fresh wound and Geralt ran his hand down his back. Left it there.

“Nothing important, truly.” Geralt tensed. “Don’t brood.” He seemed to consider it, mumbling under his breath as though he were testing out the words. “Head’s aching, s’all.” Loud in all else, quiet when it mattered most. Geralt was learning too many new things about his companion to keep up and rather than answer with words, began to knead each side of his neck, freezing when Jaskier drew a sharp breath, afraid that he’d overstepped in his inept attempts at care. 

“Too much?”

“No, no. S’good.” He exhaled slow, measured, like he did before taking to the stage. “Don’ have to.” When Geralt began again.

“I know.” Heat built up under his palms and he spread his fingers down each side of his spine, mapping out too-prominent bones, working out the knots in sore muscles until he was completely relaxed.

“Ah, dear witcher.” A languid sigh, another degree of relief, lashes fluttering in an effort to fight sleep’s seductive pull. “You take such fine care of me.” Somehow, Geralt kept his hands steady as the fist wrapped around his heart, clenching harder and harder, tighter and tighter. Strangling him. Because the truth was, he didn’t. Not when it mattered. Not when Jaskier needed him to understand.

“I don’t.” Gently, he continued, interrupting the bard when he tried to sluggishly protest, so far below Geralt was almost sure it was done by habit. “I’m going to do better.” Silent for a time, the witcher watched him go slack, listened to his heart beat the tranquil rhythm of a lullaby, the near full moon cast beams of silvery light into the room, bathing it in ethereal shadows. It was easier to make these promises in the near dark when he wasn’t exposed and everything was still enough for him to think of the right words to say.

“You were hungry.” Jaskier whispered by way of explanation as they ate a morning meal together, like he was hesitant to break the quiet from the night before. “I was afraid you’d be hurt or killed fighting against some beast.” Geralt clung to the concern in his voice, drinking it in like a fine ale and letting the kindness blossom in contrast to what he was taught to believe. 

“I can take care of myself.” A broken mantra, an automatic response. 

_I don’t need you_.

A lie. 

“I _want_ to take care of you.” Jaskier reached across the small table and cupped his rough face. “Will you let me?” It was almost more than he could bear, to hear Jaskier asking for something so simple, so selfless, without knowing the truth of it all. Knowing he wasn’t strong enough to tell it.

“I can’t. I.” He removed Jaskier’s hand but kept hold, tracing the delicate bones, so breakable under his strength, flipped it over to sweep along with a touch featherlight the recently healed grooves in his fingertips. 

“Geralt?”

“Not when I almost.”

“This isn’t your fault. People get sick, it happens. It’s nobody’s fault.” Now, Jaskier was running his thumbs over bones made heavy by mutations, strumming them like strings. 

“I realized too late.” 

“Darling--”

“No!” And that familiar mask Jaskier wore so easily slipped over his face and Geralt hated it. But the love was there, the affection, plain as day and shining bright and blue from his eyes. Painful. Damning. That he thought he deserved to be less. That he let Geralt treat him so poorly when he spoke his mind or asked for human things like food and rest and stayed by his side anyway to try harder than before. “No, Jaskier.” He was hurting him now, knowing that he expected those things, to hear ‘no’ and be denied again. That the break he’d enjoyed was over now that he could be useful again and somehow, somehow! It was his very success and _skill_ that blinded Geralt to his declining health to begin with.

_Why do you let me treat you like this?_

_Why don’t you stop me?_

_Why don’t you leave me?_

It wasn’t fair to be angry at him for Geralt’s own failings.

“I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?” The facade wrinkled in confusion (fear) but the care remained. Geralt stroked Jaskier’s cheek with the back of his fingers, softly, as though he might break under his touch. He’d broken him so thoroughly with his cursory actions alone.

“No.” The bard’s face broke into a genuine grin. It didn’t erase the evidence of being so sorely ill.

“Then that’s enough of this then.” Threading their fingers together, Jaskier pressed a chaste kiss to his knuckles. “You need to eat--”

“Why do you let me hurt you?” 

“Geralt?” 

“Why don’t you yell at me?”

“Hey now, I give just as good as I get.” It was too hard to say. To explain the hurt and jealousy that cropped up like a plague and he jumped to his feet, Jaskier shrinking back but not in fear of him. Never in fear of him. 

“Because I love you, dear witcher.” Overcome, overwhelmed, overwrought, Geralt surged forward like a white capped wave, engulfing the bard in a tight embrace that lifted him straight off the floor.

“That’s not enough. You can’t let--” Jaskier dropped a kiss into his silver hair.

“I know.” 

“This. It. It could happen again.” Another.

“I know.” 

“I’m supposed to take care of you.” Choked in a throat tight with troublesome, foreign feelings. 

“You do.” Another. 

“Not well enough.” Muffled in the juncture between Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, lips brushing his skin, making them both shudder. 

“We’ll work on it.” He hung there, toes dangling, until Geralt exhaled, set him down, but didn’t leave the safety of his throat. “There, there.” Punctuated by firm pats against broad shoulder blades. “You’re more exhausted than I am, if ever I’ve seen it.” He tugged him, speaking nonsense in that comforting, familiar way. “Lay down. There we go, you giant oaf.” But when Jaskier made to lay down beside him Geralt stopped him.

“No.” Pulled him. 

“You don’t wish to share?” 

“No.” Again. 

“Ah. I see.” He crawled over, muttering good naturedly, until he was shielded by the witcher’s bulk, and it was then Geralt curled up close beside him and pressed his nose against his throat, breathing in the scent of him, focusing on the jumping of his pulse beneath. He circled one narrow wrist in his fingers, large enough they engulfed it, and felt for his pulsepoint. So anchored, Geralt let Jaskier the quilt over them both, and slept.

The nobleman’s family insisted Jaskier take his pay despite the pair being their extended guests, after all he said, they have some of the best bragging rights of any family around, and while Geralt didn’t understand the strange ways of the rich, the bard seemed to. He nodded and thanked and played up the pretenses of being horribly put upon when they furnished them with enough fine food and drink for ten men. 

“When we come through here next, I shall make sure to play a concert exclusively for you and yours.” A low sweeping flourish of a bow had Geralt steadying him by the elbow when he rose, laughing enthusiastically and letting the witcher take some of his weight. 

When he saw Roach again he crooned sweet nonsense at the mare, holding out pieces of apple for her while Geralt packed the saddle bags. Jaskier grinned over her withers, cheeky, daring Geralt to tell him off for spoiling his warhorse. The bard needed a stretch of good meals and a warm place to sleep before the last vestiges of the sickness were gone. His grip was tight when Geralt hoisted him into the saddle.

Geralt met him at the door of their room, immediately brushing the hair out of his face and relieving him of his lute, pressing a palm to forehead, cheek, neck before tugging him to the bed, pushing him down to sit. There was a covered plate and honey tea on the side table and Jaskier felt his heart fill with something warm. 

"Let me see." Jaskier chuckled at the overprotectiveness and pushed him away just for show.

"Geralt, you don't need to check after every performance. I haven’t had a fever in weeks."

“I know, but you look tired and you played late; may I see?” Geralt wouldn’t hear of them sleeping outside and Jaskier thought him foolish, letting himself enjoy the pampering. Or, Geralt’s version of it. It was nice. A welcome change he didn’t even know he longed for and he felt cared for, appreciated. 

“My hands are fine, I promise you.” But he let Geralt run the calloused pads of his fingers over his palms, to the tips. He tucked loose strands of silver behind the witcher’s ear. “See?” 

“They feel tight.” 

“They always do after a long set.” Before Jaskier could pull them away, Geralt was massaging up his wrists and down each digit with gentle strokes. “Such fine care.” Jaskier murmured, glancing through thick lashes, knowing there was a blush spreading over his cheeks that matched Geralt’s. The tea was pressed into his hands, the napkin removed to reveal dark bread and a serving of pottage, still warm, with the high point being a sweet roll with jam. 

Settled into the far side of the bed near the wall and yawning hugely, Jaskier reached out childishly for Geralt, wanting to tuck himself close and sleep late. He _was_ tired, knew it would take him a while to gain back his stamina, and he was surprised but thankful Geralt understood and wasn’t leaving him behind. 

“You are ridiculous.” But it was said fondly, while sliding in beside him with a quirk of his lips that might have been a smile if you knew him. “Found a contract today.” He tugged Jaskier closer. “Would you like the story?” 

“Let me get my notebook!” The bard squirmed in his grip, caught fast in both arms and unable to escape no matter how much he struggled. Geralt let Jaskier tire himself out, “you brute!” Until he was laughing and breathless. 

“You’ll remember.” The witcher wriggled his face to where he wanted it, almost buried in Jaskier’s throat and tickling the bard enough to elicit another burst of giggling. “I can always tell you again.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He stretched out to get comfortable, feeling pleasantly drowsy and already beginning to fall asleep. 

“I expect nothing else.” Geralt pressed a soft kiss over his pulse, and began.

**Author's Note:**

> This author could use a kudo in these trying times. Only if you liked it, of course!


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